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I don't remember exactly what it was I thought when I saw her that day. She looked shy, hidden behind her sky-blue eyes. It was then I first realized how blue they actually were. I had heard my brother speak of her eyes before, but in opposition to his denied but obviously present fascination for them, her eyes slightly frightened me. They made me think I would never be able to get through her. And I think that was true. At least partly.

I looked at her that day knowing I would marry her. It seemed strange to me that I didn't love her, even though I knew she didn't love me either. Still it was for the best. At least that's what we had been told by our fathers, and the quiet, troubled teenager I was back then didn't see any reason for protest.

The problem wasn't that I had no affection for her. I did. We were quite good friends, and we trusted each other. I just never thought of her as the one I would get married to.

The problem also wasn't in the way she looked when she walked down the aisle a few years later. She was beautiful. She looked perfect in a dress. I couldn't remember having seen her in a dress before, and it fascinated me. But it was not the way I could ever have pictured her. Something deep inside me told me it might have been wrong. But I couldn't go back, and rationally I didn't see why I'd wanna go back. So I stopped listening. And married her. And made her the unhappiest woman alive. But I didn't realize that back then.

In the first months of our marriage, the choice of our parents seemed to have the predicted advantages. Of course I realized that those advantages were mostly good for our fathers' banking accounts, but I was young and insecure and just married a woman I didn't love, but desperately wanted to give a happy life, and therefore I closed my eyes for it and let it happen.

She was very strong, I must admit that. I can't describe what it felt like having sex with her. It was mostly like sleeping with a good friend in a drunk night. The only thing that didn't match was that I wasn't drunk. It was emotionless, which made it emotional. We both knew it probably wasn't right, and that we were hurting each other. But we did it because we were supposed to. And eventually we got used to it and the pain faded away. At least a little bit.

Everything went the way I knew it would go. When she got pregnant I didn't feel anything aside from a feeling of responsibility. Feeling shameful, I had to admit it was a responsibility I wasn't prepared to have, and actually didn't want to have.

During her pregnancy practically all she did was sit at the window and stare outside, or at her own body she knew held a life of which she wasn't sure it was meant to be born. What I have learned from her is that she was stronger than I could have imagined. She got pregnancy complications. She suffered a huge amount of pain, physically, but during the time she spent in hospital thinking of the child she owed so much guilt to, also mentally. Several times she nearly lost the baby, and I knew that every time she thought it was dead, she felt a forbidden kind of relief. Something she showed herself no mercy for.

But she carried her burden alone. In silence.

When after a dangerous long time our daughter was born, the feelings I had were the first surprise since we got married. When I saw her I felt a strange kind of love, for the baby but also for my wife. It took me a while to realize that this was my child I was holding, my flesh and blood. A life that I created with another human being. Our daughter created a bond between me and my wife, and that was for the very first time. But it wasn't a husband-and-wife kind of bond. It was the bond that was needed for our daughter to spend her first years in peace and safety.

For outsiders our married life looked just the way a married couple should look. The people who knew it was arranged and coped with lack of any love, sexual affection or passionate moments, shut their eyes and looked down when they saw us. Nobody wanted to know. In that period of time we learned that in our lives, in fact everyone was a liar. But most of all we learned that the worst liars we knew, were the liars we had made of ourselves.

Sometimes, when I'm unable to sleep, these scenes still play in my head, and the old feelings return to my mind. Like now, when I look aside and see the stars through the window, or when I stop breathing for a while just to hear the sound of my loved one sleeping. I realize I am happy now. She's been gone for a long time, and the feelings of guilt stay in the background most of the time. But sometimes, even though it's long ago, I still think of her. And then I wonder where she is, and if she's happy. Because if anyone deserves to be happy, it would be her.